


Back-Dated

by jojophins



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Falco is an Ackerman by way of adoption, character study & world building, mentions of sexual abuse, road trip au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27885721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojophins/pseuds/jojophins
Summary: Falcon's mate for life.(Gabi, unfortunately, is not bound by falcon logic.)
Relationships: Falco Grice & Survey Corps, Falco Grice & Zofia, Gabi Braun/Falco Grice
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Back-Dated

**Author's Note:**

> i did surface research and called upon my history classes for some of the information so forgive me. i hope you can appreciate this experiment with rarepaired characters. C: cheers to the new season!

Falcon’s mate for life.

It’s pretty much the only thing Zofia’s learned in her entire life since it’s the sole quip she’s got locked and ready whenever he tries to assume plausible deniability. The denial being the glances he takes at Gabi from the corner of the mess hall. 

“The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon,” Zofia flips through her book. Her thumb twindles the corner of the next, dog earring it instead. He wonders how many overnights she had to negotiate for a relic from Hizuru. “which enables it to strike and destroy its victims. Woah, Falco you gettin’ this? He’s saying you’re only _half_ loser—at least you have the stake out down.”

Gabi, unfortunately, is not bound by falcon logic.

 _How can he be looking at her if he doesn’t know where she is half the time?_ He says, _she jumps ship every other day._ He’d be lying if his senses weren’t a bit polished given that fact.

Falco sits with Zofia more often these days. Usually, he and Udo take turns on the smooth patch of dirt in the courtyard, but he’s been outsourced by Marleyan officers. Admittedly, his tuning her out the majority of the time seems to be the cause of these metaphors. Lately he finds himself under her arm with her knuckles pressed to his skull. They’re rivals but friends and have kissed once.

(“what the heck?” “shit, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, _fuck_ —")

(“was it, like, _bad_?” “y-yes, but not really? i don’t think that’s the right word for it…”)

Payment for the blow to his ego and violation of the strict code agreed on landed her on the wobbly, see-saw of a bench seat in the part of the cafeteria that yields the most dust and grime. 

Zofia acclimates his social skills to that of a turnip. He just likes the atmosphere, calling her _Your Highness_ every time her face turns up at the thought of sitting down.

(still, he smiles whenever red creeps up her cheeks at the mention of Odila in Class 4.) 

Ongoing disputes aside, he cuts the shit this time. “Where do you think she is?”

“She was sitting with the Weber brothers last time.”

Falco rolls a tomato around the rim of his plate. “No, that was Bence. Bence and that other guy—new kid in the program? Henri, I think. Gabi was chewing him out though.”

“Really,” Zofia says.

“He called the program too good to be true. Applying to a good cause for _social upset_ if we failed.”

No legs were being pulled, chains left un-yanked because for all they knew, Marleyans would take empty handedness more seriously than treason. Or pin the two as one in the same.

Falco continues. “Then he started talking about Reiner, and… she punched him.”

Zofia gives him a look. Scrutinizing.

“I took him to the med bay. What did you want me to do?”

She hums. “Even after he moved here?”

“Moved?” Falco raises an eyebrow.

“Do you… think of anyone beside Gabi?”

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?” Falco challenges.

“Put your dukes away, man. This was like, the highlight of last week _easy_. Didn’t you ever wonder why your mom kept asking you to invite him over?”

Falco thinks he would remember something like that. He does not. “Was that the week Mrs. Braun’s sewing machine broke?”

Zofia narrows her eyes. “Yes.”

“No?”

“Asshole,” Zofia smacks his arm.

“Ow! Okay, _jeez_ , what happened?”

People like Henri weren’t normally allowed to mingle with Eldians. His father was one of the guest instructors for some of their lessons, however. Falco suspects it’s due to his involvement with the church. Occasionally, Marley would take pity on them and pour the money for resources within the ghettos into a decent vacation for religious affiliates who aren’t afraid of the power Eldians held. Missionaries. Falco had heard of them before.

_Those evangelists say they can save us! Who are we to turn them down?_

Henri's father always came up to him after class to ask how his studies were going. _Remember if you need anything, I’m down the hall during lunch,_ with that big warm smile. Falco would give him a salute and tell him the same thing every time. It's—

_Fine Audrey, but when your boy comes home crying, we can't save you._

Only a handful of times did he call him _Henri's father_ until he was told that his name _was_ Father. Er, Father Ervin. Henri's hands clasp together when he so much as utters the man's name. It's all the wondrous, amazing, exuberant deeds; these acts of mercy that's sat him on a pedestal so high. There's a reason he's called the Father, he guesses. But then, is that not the point of their God? The clerical collar branding him to the tales of this—bib—biblical—

_Nonsense! If we cannot believe in Marley, we must believe in a higher power. Ervin suggests God, Ymir and the titans were devils. Who are we to deny?_

In autumn, when the next semester began, Falco leaned against his bedroom window. Gabi’s new dress was made with the same material from his old curtains. His mother liked to repurpose old things. Out with the new unless Falco was concerned. 

(gabi looked the same to him. a sunset in the summer solstice.)

His mother had asked if Henri might like something new to wear. If Henri wants to come over for dinner, if he wants to spend the evening on the spare mattress in the living room. Each time Falco would say he’d forgotten to ask, when in reality Gabi’s dress was too red to remember much else from the morning.

And the next morning, and the next morning, and so on.

The old women from his neighborhood were grouped in their conversations, the dogs were threatening them with barks until they forked over the sandwiches in those coats, rolled in loose napkins. He hasn't seen Henri in three months. Within the last couple classes with him, the sunken eyes on his face could nearly rival that of the veterans admitted in the hospitals of Marley. He understands the guy attempts to excel at any assignment that's splayed in front of him by way of being able to give the Father something to bring up in conversation.

The cotton ball is fills with disinfectant when Falco asks. He isn’t really expecting a grand explanation. Henri flinches when Falco grabs his chin but apologizes and waves it off. _It's my amazing deeds, you know! I challenge myself for his sake._

Falco sighs, looking at the newspaper headline from the day before. Foreign Correspondent.

 **THE 'HIDDEN CHILDREN' OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH REFUSE TO LIVE IN SECRECY ANYMORE,** _see page 7_

Humanity is cruel; when Falco grows old enough to join the warrior program, he doesn’t give a damn. Not that he can’t acknowledge it—he’s more than familiar with hatred for human beings as a whole—but the righteous schtick can only drive him so far before they’re out of gas. 

* * *

"I'm glad he's gone! Fucker's always trying to one-up me," Gabi clips her notes, "But who's top of the class now?" 

Falco stares, exasperated. " _Gabi_."

"Shut up. It's not like we knew what was going on." Her thumb flicks the tip of her wrinkled nose. "How could we?"

"Do you think of anyone other than you?"

"Everyone in the interment zones. That includes you—who I'm talking to now—aren't I?"

* * *

Falco touches his cheek, forming the handprint that has swelled and receded already. He deserved that.

* * *

The clash of the islanders and Marley's mainland slammed their economy—spiraling them in another war.

It begins and ends as the last. With a kiss goodbye from his mother and sudden destruction in his wake.

He trusted him. Mr. Yeager. So _why._ This was his fault wasn't it? For the first time since joining the program, stealing Gabi's dream to force his own out into the foreground, he wants to rectify this burden. 

The conditioning shows itself. Something savage— _visceral_ —awoke within him that day. He remembers flying up the to a blimp. Rope tearing, but the gunshot still fires. 

"Don't!" Falco gawks at the scene, but it's already too late. He hears a cry of a name and moves to snatch the weapon from Gabi. He thinks he's smooth, laying his feet in the places they need to in order to force the both of them out of the blimp. But maybe it's the unsteadiness of the pilot. 

_Clink!_

The soldier points a gun—no, a barrel. Could be a flare from the looks of it, but it's there. Terrifyingly close. 

Part of Falco looks past the void and sees anger. The other half wins, fortunately, so he plants his foot on the wall opposite the door. He tears down his resolve, and gains it back anew, fortified in its desire to survive. The kickback sends him flying. The person in his arms is resisting, and he's pretty fucking tired. 

His back hit a roof top, sliding across until the shingles in their wake bunch up against the collumn that stops the momentum. Falco opens his eyes knowing he's got a concussion. Everything hurts. Gabi's yelling directly into his ear, pulling him to his feet. She it for so long, Falco's grateful. The blimp must be gone. 

"Gabi," he says. "Are you okay?"

The nerve of himself.

"Yeah," She replies, sobbing. Her voice is caked in spit. Falco's eyes see dots and blotches of black. " _You idiot_..."

So, fucking tired.

* * *

_How did the Wright Brothers create the first aeroplane?_

A pilot’s favorite joke. The punchline as one might guess, is not especially difficult to jump to. But comparing the joke to flying to _skydiving_ doesn’t do it nearly enough justice.

To put in simply—

The idea really took off. In his fifth year, class was cancelled. By the alumni, field work amounted to sweeping conquered areas, clearing out the remaining civilians, daily training in directional skills, driving tests, and overall ability to multitask any combination of the checkpoints given.

Falco surmises that he should always assume the worst from a program that allows training earlier than ten-years-old. They were flat out _deployed_.

_“Holy shit,” Zofia yells, exasperated. The buttons in the front of her uniform mirror his. Her hair curls out of the bun she slicked back upon hearing the news._

_Falco frowns. “Are you nervous?”_

_“Any normal person would be! Plus, I’m team leader, I’ve got to make sure everyone knows how to breathe and stuff.”_

_“Breathe?” He doesn’t follow._

_“Huh?!”_

A parachute is not enough to completely eliminate the force he’ll hit the ground. Jumping out of planes is the one lesson where he is not fully briefed on account of trudging through snow with two shares of lunch in his backpack to Reiner’s mother for the month. Without fail, he was subject to her tired, knowing smile. 

He did catch wind of the course's first lesson. 

_Parachutes work by forcing air into the front of it, creating a structured ‘wing’ under which the canopy pilot can fly._

Most drills involve lengthy obstacle courses that have recruits scaling old buildings and clearing the space below without the rope. His ankle twists the first time, and the second, until it is third time’s charm in fifth place out of twenty. It goes without saying, because Marley does not mind counting a loss of a few Eldians, he gets to skip the next crucial moments and dive headfirst into the clouds. They form stacked on top of each other. The greatest sight to see from a blanket in the dirt on the ground, yet so graphically horrible up close. 

Falco wants to forget flying. Wants to dislodge the dream from his brain and fling it out to those huge, white puffs of water. _The air outside,_ he recalls, _is one thousand times less concentrated._ You’ll die if you panic. Good to know the pamphlet his instructor lent him explained the dangers of high-altitude bailouts. 

It did _not_ mention helpful scales from the paratrooper to the ground. Falco cannot _eyeball_ ten thousand feet. He’s fucking _shitting_ himself

But hell, if that matters now, because he’s being shoved closer and closer to the open door. The air sucks his comrades out as they deal the air around them screams of terror, enjoyment or somewhere in between. 

He figures it out when his goggles suction to his face, the wind working double-time against him. Falling, falling, until his outstretched hand touches the clouds, and his throat is cold and dry.

* * *

Okay, the landing could have gone better. A lot better. His fear of heights is now attributed to free falling, as is any and every heavy gust of wind. There is a coolness to his bones, hollowed in the way Colt and Zeke and Reiner have taught him. Resolve.

(perhaps a smidge of derealization.)

There’s no weakness in being afraid, only in showing his fear to the enemy. And if the stories of old were true, this man-made detachment will grow to feel more natural.

* * *

Fort Olsborg functions as a barricade from the outside, doing nothing to stop a potential hurricane from within. 

Galliard could have waited. _He should have._ But the smell of burning flesh wafts near Falco’s nose and he doubles over retching before he has the chance to scream.

_—alco!_

_Shit co—out of—re!_

Magath was near him. There was an arm pulling, gripping—

_Falco!_

—releasing.

Where’s Colt?

“FALCO!”

His eyes burn with tears from the smoke or the smell, or the vomiting he does not know. Possibly all at once. His hands are shaky when they come up to his throat. He needs some water.

“Come on! We can’t waste any more time. Colt isn’t—he and Magath are—oh my god. Oh my _god._ ”

“U...do.”

“Yes, me! You can talk, albeit not clearly, still— _good_ , that’s great. Everything’s fine. We are going to be okay. Nothing but blue skies for us!” Falco squints. “Everything’s— _no don’t look down_ , look at me. I’m Udo, let’s go.”

Udo slinks his arm under his shoulder, supporting most of its weight. Falco’s foot angles back, dragging against the pavement but Udo’s a trooper. A narration of his book on _Decompression_ ensues, convincing the both of them to follow through with its advice in the middle of a whirring battlefield. His chest burns, and Udo’s words aren’t much when they’re being regurgitated over and over with wet mumbles and shaky breaths. His grip hurts like hell.

Everything went south rather fast. They’re lucky the change in location has a steeper incline between the Wall and the trench. Behind him, dragging their bodies against the ground are the few who’ve manage to survive the explosion, but have little to show for it. Had he already not been familiar with the human anatomy spread thin, this would be a very touching reunion with trauma.

“Why am I always on a manhunt for you?! Self-preservation is a thing! Please, fucking use it next time!” Udo does a mix of a sob and screech when the enemy cannon snipes the girl from Class 4.

The only indicator they’re still alive after all.

And Falco’s not complaining.

* * *

Falco comes to on a cot permeating with the smell of copper. The moonlight reflects through the window hazy, capturing his attention regardless. He appreciates its watchful eye in the quiet of the room. 

His arms are weighed down, and he feels an addition body across his thighs. 

"Don't move," Zofia warns. 

He abides and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Realization of being injured happens when a doctor has the most pitied expression. Not grave by wartime standards. Still able bodied to work as the front man on the suicide squad. _Just_ —missing a portion of his ring finger.

Gabi’s string of curses and rattling that sounds suspiciously like metal rods being strewn up settles the bile in his throat. The body’s fight or flight response is spot on, it seems.

“No! I have my hands full with one dumbass. Two and I’m asking for a promotion.” Zofia struggles, trying to pry Gabi’s fingers from the rope bag.   
  
“Don’t worry! It’s just like last time, I’ll go and distract them. Magath and Galliard had our backs, right?” Unsurprisingly, Gabi wins their scuffle.

“Do you—” She cuts him off promptly, flipping her loose ends behind her ear.

“Honestly? Yes. Its hard work being me all the time.”

There’s a collective groan. Gabi does not appreciate this.

“I don’t see anyone else bringing good ideas to the table.”

“We could always flee during nightfall.”

“I said _good_ ideas.”

Udo adjust his glasses. “The enemy canon crosshairs are too small. I noticed after rewrapping Falco’s hand.” He takes one of the guns, holding the opening down toward the dirt. He draws a few clouds. “Based on the last couple days, the moon might be shadowed out. The cadets are the only ones small enough to at least try crawling out from the digging point. It could be our only chance.”

“You think they’d let us?” _Would they really?_

“Of course not. I’m only… giving you guys the suggestion.”

Ah.

An option that freefalls easy through the thick air surrounding them. Palpable, and smokey. They witnessed Henri be carded thin for a circumstance far out of his control. He wasn’t even Eldian and he resembled a demon in the weeks leading up to his ‘withdrawal’.

A slice of a glare from Gabi. “We’re not _abandoning_ everyone.”

“It’s that or we all die.”

Gabi gestures violently to the explosives. “I have a plan!”

“Okay, you die and then the rest of us,” Zofia says impatiently. Falco takes the opportunity to trade glances with Udo, who is too busy mumbling at the dirt wall to intervene.

Gabi’s track record isn’t clean, but it’s better than the three of them combined. Not to say she’s incapable of handling herself, but unlike the last war they’d been fighting, this one bred new enemies that wouldn’t give in to her sleight of hand. She’d die, no doubt.

What’s a finger missing if that happens.

“Guys.”

“ _What’s your problem_?”

“My problem?” Zofia pushes past him, “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not fucking joking.” Gabi raises her voice. “You just want to tell Magath your stupid plan to look like some hero. But that’s not going to work because I’m already in line. Miles ahead of you.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Guys!”

“Next in line? Please. You think you’re the only one with a family to protect?” Zofia’s nose is almost touching Gabi’s. He sighs. “That Reiner’s is the only titan that matters?”

“I didn’t say—”

“That’s what you meant. Reiner’s titan is the only one we’re all gunning for.” Falco looks down and sees her fists clenched. He’s not in good enough shape to break up a fight. “The end all be all. Not Udo’s interpreting skills that _actually_ let us talk with the outside world. Not Falco risking his life for you, not even me talking you out of being an idiot. ‘Cause fuck us, right?”

Falco would also like to remind Gabi that by virtue of her wanting the best interest of the interment zone… they also live there. He turned and faced his mother, and father, gave them a salute and promised the next time he saw them, he’d have a red badge on his arm. The impact she is enforcing over all three of them extends to the rest of the Eldians she’s swearing to protect. How were they supposed to be okay with their self-appointed savior doling out suicidal strategies?

If only she could _sit down_ for a few minutes and let the words digest, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

Udo knows this too.

“It’s our only chance,” he says as though it’s absolute.

Falco urges, “To break them up?”

Udo shakes his head gnawing on his lip. “If the enemy is pushing east, we move west.” His teeth stain red as Falco listens with rapt attention.

The girls also turn their heads. As expected, Gabi has a dollop of swollen red on her jaw. Her eyes are wet but far be it from him to assume she’s come to her senses.

“Magath said they were planning to wipe us out with the anti-titan tanks. They’re north of us.”

(—gripping, pulling—)

Udo grabs his shoulders and gazes into his soul. “If the enemy is pushing east, we move west. We move _west_ , reach the docks and become Devils.”

(releasing)

He used to think friendship meant keeping each other’s best interest at heart. They don’t talk about dreams, they’ve all experienced the same childhood, or what coat they should buy for winter back at home. They don’t move in the similar circles, flow the same wavelengths, are, Zofia would agree, nearly diametrically opposed in conviction. In a lot of ways, Udo has damned them to Hell. Listening to conspiracies of fleeing the battlefield and not reporting them. No matter which way he spins their outcome, it’s still pretty shit.

“You’re _escaping_ ,” Falco hisses. “We’re going to get accused of—of perfidy— _desertion_ —”

“Listen—”

“You realize they could kill before we get there?”

“Yes—”

“We’re cadets! We don’t have that kind of survival training!”

“If we wait ‘til sunrise, there’s bound to be a ship we could hop on—”

“ _Hell no_!”

“ _DO YOU WANT TO DIE_?!”

Falco pauses.

How to say this.

Most days… he can’t remember. He has nothing against his life. It’s been led the only way available, working to rectify the shortcomings of his ancestors, providing a double positive to Marley despite every negative weighing four times greater. He declares himself insane. Routine self-sacrifice and deprecation were, indeed, not normal.

Today he can recall looking into the glass shard they used for a mirror. Can remember flicking it to his right, seeing droll dried and caked across Gabi’s cheek.

“No.” Falco says, going through the motions of Udo’s impressive shake down. “No but I…” The words nearly die there. He doesn’t need to pick them up any further than the barrel of the gun is to the ground.

Desertion is a war crime. He need not look any further to conclude they were left for dead. 

The wetness on his cheeks is clear indication. He does not want to die. He is going to live, and he is going to do what is takes to outlast the trench and build a better life for himself. For Gabi.

The moment he stepped foot out of the plane, it was said and done. Human beings can’t fly without the aid of another, and Falco’s been ditched with the few remaining beacons smothered in sand and goopy remnants of sangria.

Falco feels warmth for the first time again. In the swirling resolve carved—hollowed real-time. In the burning eyes, threatening to pierce the back of his skull. The dampness down his chin.

His words are cottony, but he replies. 

“Fine! Fuck!” Falco breathes deep. And out. In and out with more force until he’s pushing through air with the intensity of a bull’s hoof scraping the arena. The fort’s structure from their vantage point appear in the distance like mountain switchbacks. It forces them to see their impending doom. Through sheer force of will he looks to the sky and sees one falcon amidst a whirlpool of vultures. “What’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no beta, we die like men)


End file.
